


as wax melts before the fire

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Humiliation, Kneeling, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Prayer, Roman Catholicism, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-29 21:09:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7699435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.</p><p>Paul thinks he might be dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as wax melts before the fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rillrill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/gifts).



Mr. Kaine’s not angry. All right?

He wants Paul to understand that. He’s not angry. He’s just - well.

He’s a little disappointed.

Mr. Kaine understands. Sometimes temptation’s too great to resist. Sometimes you make a face at the priest while his back is turned, or you take a dime from the collection plate, or you endorse a neofascist because you’re too drunk on being in the public eye to want to bow out and go into consulting. But - and Mr. Kaine shakes his head - sometimes, Paul, it’s easy to see that…well…you didn’t even try resisting. Did you, Paul? God understands if you fail; we’re all only human. But you gotta give it the old college try, right, slugger?

Mr. Kaine’s not a priest. Oh, fine, he babbled on a bit about the glory of God in Honduras, but he’s still not a priest. He doesn’t feel like he can tell anyone what’s morally right and morally wrong. All he can do is offer his advice. All he can do is show his life experience. It’s not bending on personal morals, you know, if you defund abstinence-only education efforts. It’s contextualizing your morals, so you can follow the Son down to every red letter. 

Mr. Kaine’s not a priest, but he has a favorite verse, and it’s Galatians chapter three, verse twenty-eight. We’re all sinners, Paul, but we’re all one in Christ. Mr. Kaine saw a pillow at an antique shop with Luke, chapter four, verse seven embroidered on it. He had to laugh, and he had to buy it, and it’s in his study right now. Context, remember? You gotta contextualize everything, otherwise where would you be? Huh, Paul? Where would you be?

(The version of Luke 4:7 embroidered on that pillow was from the KJV, he stage whispers. He winks.)

Mr. Kaine’s not going to tell anyone what to do. Mr. Kaine certainly didn’t tell Paul to do this. But his eyes are very proud, and the pride in them glows ever sharper with every click of the rosary bead. Paul found, to his surprise, that he didn’t need to dredge around in his brain for the Ave Maria. His _understanding_ of Latin is a little shaky, but he’s at least got it by ear. He can’t pick it up for the Fatima, though, and that’s embarrassing enough that he snaps out of his trance and takes stock of the room. Mr. Kaine’s ever-present bottle of Dr. Pepper resting a little haphazard on the couch arm. The blue handkerchief he uses to clean his harmonicas spread on one knee. The rosary itself is old, well-worn. Mr. Kaine said, vaguely, that he’s had it for a while. Picked it up somewhere. Paul knows what that means, and his anger spikes; rubbing it in his face, how he ministered the impoverished and served Christ without clearing out a soup kitchen for a photo op.  

Paul’s knees are starting to ache. They’re only on the second decade, and Mr. Kaine’s office floor is hard. Rebellion rises up, gritty in his throat.

“Paul,” Mr. Kaine says. Not admonishing, just so Paul will look at him. Mr. Kaine doesn’t card his fingers through Paul’s hair, or smack him for losing focus, or scold.

Instead Mr. Kaine says “You’re being such a good boy,” all soft, and then he brushes his knee against Paul’s ear. “Keep going.”

Paul swallows, and arranges the words in his mouth for the Salve Regina. Mr. Kaine helps him out when he stumbles, clasps his sweating hand for the Paternoster. Just about three decades left. He can do this. He’ll stay on his knees til it’s done.  

 

 

//

 

Conventions, spinning out of control, Ted's vile reckoning, Paul watching with lips clamped shut, unease building, tears streaming, Tim laughing with Bill, balloons popping, America glowing.

Balance tipping, tipping blue.

 

//

 

 

“Call for you, Mr. Kaine.”

Tim looked up from his crossword puzzle and smiled at the intern. “You can just let it go to voice, Ms. Garza. And call me Tim. Thank you.”

“He said it was urgent, Mr. - Tim.” The intern hesitated, tucked a strand of curly black hair behind her ear. “He doesn’t sound too good.”

“Who?”

“He said he was Gym Rat. Um. This is on your private line, the emergency cell, otherwise I’d just - ”

“Why don’t you get me that phone, Ms. Garza?”

She’d blinked at his urgency, and he sought to soften it. “If it’s not too much trouble. It isn’t kind to leave urgent pleas dangling.”

He took the proffered phone, smiled at her without blinking, til she understood and left. He breathed into the phone, letting the person on the other end hear the crackle, but he didn’t say anything til he heard the door click its lock. “Paul?”

“I fucked up.” Paul was hoarse.

“Language,” Tim said mildly. He kicked his shoes off under the desk and leaned forward on his elbows. He knew Ms. Garza, tactful girl she was, would have gone away, but you never knew who’d be walking by. “Galatians chapter six, verse seven, buddy. What’s that one say?”

Paul drew in a hollow, horse-snorting breath, of the type to precede a sob. “I - There is no Jew nor Gentile - ”

“Ooh, swing and a miss. That’s chapter three, buddy. Right book, though.” Paul responded best to encouragement. Tim leaned on it. “You’re doing good, slugger. It’s hard to get back in the groove. Lot to memorize. And I know KJV floats around the most. False cognates, right, Paul? The hardest thing, when you’re learning. When you’re relearning.”

Pause, so Tim could listen. Paul kept breathing, and here and there there was the mild suck of himself at his lip, but he didn’t seem in prime shape to speak. “I’m sorry, Paul. Things don’t always work out the way we want.”

“I did this,” Paul whispered, his voice barely audible.

“It’s good you’re taking responsibility.”

“I can’t, I can’t - The President said - ”

“Truth comes out,” Tim said, patient. “Luke said that.  For there is not any thing secret that shall not be made manifest, nor hidden, that shall not be known and come abroad. I won’t ask you for verse. Chapter?”

Paul hacked a cough and kept breathing, hollow.

“Are you at home, Paul?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s your rosary, Paul?”

The answer should be in his pocket, but he forgot sometimes, and Tim could hear him not wanting to confess. Tim didn’t want confessions. He wouldn’t know what to do with them. He couldn’t absolve; he wasn’t a priest. Paul forgot that, sometimes. Paul forgot a lot of things.

“On the mirror,” Paul said, at last, which was probably a lie but could be true.

Tim decided to pick at the truth. “Good. Have you gone grocery shopping this week, Paul?”

“What?”

“Do you have rice?”

Snort. Sound of jacket sleeve against nose. “Yeah.”

“Basmati? Jasmine? It doesn’t matter. Dry rice?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to get a cookie sheet,” Tim said. He swiveled in his chair. “A big one. It’s okay if it has ridged edges. You just flip that upside down, so it’s flat. And you get your rosary, and you get a little - not a lot, maybe a quarter of a cup - just a little rice, and you put it on top of that cookie sheet. And then you - you focus, Paul. On what you need to do.”

Silence.

“I can stay on the line with you for another twenty minutes.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Paul said, a trace of his usual ice coating his tongue. Tim smiled at it. “You’re a busy man.”

“I’m not very busy. I’m a VP nominee, Paul. I know you know how that goes.”

Silence, for a very long time, such that Tim lifted his phone away from his face to make sure he hadn’t accidentally hit disconnect. And then a clatter: metal on wood. And then the unmistakable waterfall of dried rice on a hard surface.

“In nomine patri, et filii, et spiritus sancti,” Paul said. His voice cut up with a cringe.

Tim left him on speakerphone for the first three beads, then said “God bless you, Paul,” and hung up. He shook his head. Some people said the rosary and then didn’t make good on their promises. Some people tried to use their rosary as absolution for any actions. Paul was getting better. Paul was trying. But he kept forgetting.

Tim flipped through his schedule. They’d be in Wisconsin in a week. Just a week! Time flew. He smiled, and he stood up to unlock the door.

 

 

//

 

 

On CNN, on Fox, New York Times, Washington Post seething bitterness but always truth, CBS, blustering, Haaretz, Der Spiegel, The Guardian, Aftenposten, BBC, dribbling, heaving, terrified, mouth moving, pig eyes blank, unstoppable, talking, endless.

Balance tipping, tipping blue.

 

 

//

 

 

Trump endorses.

Paul stands in his office in Madison, gnawing at his knuckles. He's been gnawing for the past five minutes. He can taste the slightest hint of blood. He whimpers, and the whimper mutates to the teeth-rattling, hollow-chested feeling that precedes a long cry. He won't. He won't. The tears drive back in his eyes like nails and he wipes his hand across his chest. What have you done, Paul? What have you done?

Whatever he has done is unsalvageable. It's too late. It's too fucking late, Paul. Ted, scorpion that he is, had the right idea: get up onstage in front of millions, appear to swallow your pride, swan offstage and let yourself be manhandled by security and go back to your hotel room to lie with shining eyes awake in the dark and know that you are now viable for 2020. Paul could have, Paul could have said it out loud, could have disclaimed the person, fought Kasich into the nomination, but he did not, and now it is too late, and now he is pathetically grateful for the unwilling scrap given him by this monster. By this monster. Paul chokes and digs his nails inot his cheek. Oh, God. Oh, God. He does not have to ask why God has forsaken him. He knows. Who cares if he's ahead of Nehlen? Who cares if Solen and Breu get their asses kicked off the stage? Wisconsin doesn't fucking matter. He can stay locked in the office and the men of Sodom will pound at his door and he will let them in to defile the angels. He's done that. He has done that already.

He can swear that he didn't want this, that he didn't see the tide sweeping this way, but he climbed onto the rickety golden yacht anyways and he let himself be pushed off the dock because the gold had blinded him and now, Oh, God, oh, sweet Jesus, Savior, glaring down sorrowful and betrayed from His cross, he has nothing left but to be dragged miserable across this rocky desert, to be found wanting on the day of Judgement. That is his reckoning and that is his destiny. Holy Mary Mother of God. Paul drags his hands down his face, and as his hands go so does his body. He's on the floor without meaning to be there, panting, hacking without tears, his ribcage seizing around his lungs, retching nothing. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, fuck, he left his burner phone in the hotel. Fuck. Paul grinds his forehead against the carpeted floor. He needs Mr. Kaine. He needs Mr. Kaine.

He retches again, comes up with naught but saliva. Pain drives into his side like a stitch from running. He should cry, get it over with, but he's locked down, paralyzed, his body so tense that you could throw him on the sidewalk and he'd break into a million tiny pieces. He could throw himself on the sidewalk, this office is ten stories up. He could call someone and be on the phone and say "I'm just going to

We're trying to cut down on the mortal sins, slugger, Mr. Kaine says, in his head. Let's think about these things, huh?

Paul drags in a breath.

Think of Mr. Kaine. Mr. Kaine's callused hands on the side of his face when he's being -

Mr. Kaine saying verse and chapter. Verse and chapter, Paul. What's your verse and chapter? Paul scrambles around. All he can find is Luke four-seven, Mr. Kaine's ironic pillow, and that sends a fresh scrape of fire across his chest. If you worship me, it will all be yours. The Devil said that. Donald said that. The Devil lies.

Paul whimpers, but Mr. Kaine's with him again. Mr. Kaine talks about responsibility, but if Paul's too far gone for that, Mr. Kaine tends to say that the best way to clear the mind is to just sit yourself down and pray yourself into a reset. Like turning a computer on and off. You let God hit the switch.

Rice. He doesn't have rice. You can't get any fucking good takeout in Madison, he's been living on pizza. He doesn't have rice. Staples. He has staples. Paul should stand but he finds himself crawling to his desk. Box of staples in the bottom drawer, and he's about to scatter them when his elbow hits the chair. He shoves it out of the way, off the protective plastic pad, and then he hesitates, and he puts the staples back and he with some real effort pulls the pad off the rug. The pad has hard little plastic spikes all over its down side. Paul flips it entirely. Rosary. He has his rosary in his pocket always, because Mr. Kaine ends every text, every phone call, with a question of where it is. He has his rosary, and he has Mr. Kaine, in his head, saying, I can stay with you, Paul, for twenty minutes. Good boy. You're such a good boy.

Paul moans, settling himself on the spikes. They dig into his bony legs. He steadies himself for a moment on the flats of his palms, forehead against the desk, and then he straightens, and he kisses the cross, and he makes the sign. In the name of the Father...

Mr. Kaine looms within him, pats his shoulder. Good boy, he says.

Mr. Kaine will take care of him, Paul thinks. He draws in a breath through his nose, latches on to that. Mr. Kaine always will. Mr. Kaine with his callused hands and his gentle knee tapping insistently at Paul's cheek. Mr. Kaine with his demands for honesty.

Paul's legs are asleep by the time he's done. Shirtfront wet. He's calm. He's calm. For now. Til he gets home. Til he finds the burner.

 

  
//

 

Babies crying, sirens ringing, indignant Gold Star families emailing, canceling credit cards, Peggy Noonan revolting.

Balance tipping, tipping blue.

 

//

 

Tim's phone rang. Normally he wouldn't answer calls past eleven, but the sterility of the hotel had made him a little too anxious to sleep. Hillary had said goodnight an hour ago, and he knew she'd be asleep, he knew she'd be smart with herself and rest up for the rally tomorrow and have time in the morning to read the papers. He didn't get it, yet, still star-struck, still made odd by the circumstances. He'd be a little sleepy tomorrow morning, a little fuzzy. Thank God for teleprompters.

Tim's phone rang and he reached and he saw the number and he didn't hit speaker like he normally would. "Paul?"

"I need someone to pray with."

Paul gravelly. Lack of sleep, Tim thought, and then the hiccup sounded. Too shallow to be from a hidden sob. Tim pursed his lips but would not judge. The man was stressed out. They were all stressed out. Stressful time of year. "Want to talk about it, buddy?"

"There's nothing - What do I say?"

"The truth, buddy."

A long silence. Tim shook his head. Paul wasn't ready for that yet, was he? Paul might never be. "Paul, buddy, that's what prayer is. It's not just asking for help. It's telling the truth to God and the Son about what you can't do on your own. It's asking them to - Paul, are you listening?"

Paul had erupted a string of hiccups. He bit down on them, Tim could hear him biting down, and then he breathed hard.

Tim shook his head again. Paul couldn't hear right now, could he? If any man have an ear...But Paul was trying, and he'd asked for help, and Tim could tell the truth on his behalf. "Got your rosary, Paul?"

Clink of beads.

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit," Tim says, and crosses himself. "Paul, do you know the Act of Contrition?"

Silence. He shouldn't have asked. Paul got very fidgety around what he didn't know.

"That's okay, buddy. That's okay. Look it up. You'll know it for next time. Just listen to me." Tim settled onto the bed and bowed his head. "O, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended You..."

Paul kept him on the line, and Tim refused to be annoyed, because the man just needed an ear.

He had to ask Ms. Garza to find him a Dr. Pepper at six AM.

//

 

Tilting blue.

Tilting blue.

Tilting, leaning...

 

//

 

It's September. Still hot in DC. Trump keeps opening his mouth. Toads keep falling out. Polls, all the polls, everywhere, freefall. Nate Silver has Georgia flipping blue by four points.

Paul lies on the floor of his Washington apartment. He did his P90X, and then he did it again, in fretful batches, til he felt the stretches go to strain, til he aggravated his back, and then he fell onto his knees on his yoga mat. He's sweating. The AC's busted. He's sweated through his shirt. He's disgusting.

They're all disgusting.

He believes that now. Truly believes that. For Trump spent the entire month with his mouth open and the toadstone hatched to vile creatures that themselves vomited and shat black and yet Paul looked at Nehlen and looked at the numbers and said "I stand behind our nominee" because he is a coward, a Judas to the Christ of America, a Jezebel holding forth a grotesque orange idol.

He dials.

"I'm sorry, Paul," Mr. Kaine says, half a whisper. "I'm in a meeting. Leave me a voicemail, okay? I'll listen to it and I'll call back when I'm free. Give me two hours."

And he hangs up. Paul can't believe it but he hangs up.

He dials again, frantic, and Mr. Kaine picks up again and says, severe, "Paul. Get some rice and go think about it. Two hours, I promise. Goodbye."

But the rice isn't fucking enough, anymore, he needs Mr. Kaine, he needs Mr. Kaine to perform any kind of absolution, Mr. Kaine's voice, Mr. Kaine's hands, callused hands, rough, the skin flaking white at the heel of his palm, the fingernails he cuts so he won't bite them, Mr. Kaine's calmness, his smile, his kind and careful insistence on the truth. Paul kicks the yoga mat away. he has rice in every room in his house now for rice is needed at all times and he pulls the little bowl of the end table and scatters it. Takes his rosary from where he placed it, reverently, on the coffee table. Kneels but he's too shaky from his workout to sit up straight. Grasps onto the couch arm with the beads in his fist. In nomine patrii et filii et spiritus sancti, Amen, Mr. Kaine, Mr. Kaine -

He imagines Mr. Kaine pulling him up to rest flush against the couch, imagines him readjusting him whenever he tries to get up for a stretch, up and down, his body, Mr. Kaine filling him with the Holy Spirit, Mr. Kaine, oh, Mr. Kaine, absolve me, forgive me for what I have done. Who will forgive me? Not Man, not God, but Mr. Kaine, and he sobs and rubs up against the couch to keep himself straight. He goes through his prayers, shaking, rubbing, rutting, Mr. Kaine's imaginary fist in his hair, Mr. Kaine's imaginary shoe on his ankle, keeping him pinned, and Mr. Kaine will forgive him, and then maybe America will, and then maybe God. He prays the rosary and he prays the rosary and he's desperate, desperate for absolution, can't sit up straight, keeps rubbing up, a strange fire rising in his belly, tears pricking, tears dripping. In the name of the Father the Son and the Holy Spirit, Mother Mary, Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes, forgive me, forgive me, forgive -

His phone buzzes in his hand and his thumb hits

"Paul?"

Paul jerks against the couch, inflamed to the point of combustion. The holy fire rockets through him - holy fire, he's been spending too much time with fucking Evangelicals - and it spins him out, drains him, and he collapses down with his side into the floor and the

"Paul," Mr. Kaine says, sounding worried. "You all right?"

"Yes," Paul whispers.

"Well then," says Mr. Kaine. He clears his throat. "Let's just - Let me just tell you, again, from last time..."

Paul lies there, dazed, as Mr. Kaine tells him a funny story about when he was in Honduras. As Mr. Kaine talks quietly about public service and doing what's right. As Mr. Kaine reminds him of his favorite verses, both in Galatians. Paul flops his hand against the wood flooring and lets Mr. Kaine's voice fill his bones. There's a stain on the couch that he hasn't seen before. He stares at it. It collects in the face of the usual evil. Mr. Kaine says something about Luke, chapter four, verse seven. Father, Son, Holy Spirit. He's going to withdraw his endorsement tomorrow. He swears it. He swears it. He will.

 

//

 

Tipping, tipping.

Nehlen won the primary.

Tipping, tipping.

Solen won the general.

Tipping, tipping.

Hillary has the White House.

Tipping, tipping, tipping.

Paul didn't unendorse.

Tipping, tipping, tipped. Tipped full blue.

**Author's Note:**

> title's from the prayer of exorcism
> 
> i hate this fucking election


End file.
